


The Third Tuesday of This Month

by aireagoir



Series: The Third Tuesday [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Loss, Not Canon Compliant, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aireagoir/pseuds/aireagoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony tried to do what was right. He tried to do what was fair, just, practical, and safest for the greater good. The harder Tony tries the worse he feels about every concept of right and wrong.<br/>The Third Tuesday of every month he walks into a small bomb shelter hidden from everyone else. He works behind the scenes to make the world a better place.<br/>This Tuesday, he's the one who needs the help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Tuesday of This Month

********

Tony never stopped being surprised that the one hour of the entire month when he didn’t want to be the center of everybody’s universe nobody would leave him the hell alone. He wasn’t wrong. Today everybody needed 20 minutes with him, five minutes ago. Pepper was talking about finalizing wording on something something blah whatever asset something since it seemed they would not be continuing as, Pepper’s phrasing was priceless, “a cohesive personal unit, as opposed to the united front we will always present as the heads of Stark Industries.” Happy wanted bulletproof things for the thing, Coulson wanted to object to the thing, Natasha was pressing him to cut through red tape so the Avengers could at least be helpful in natural disasters or other non-political arenas where super strength couldn’t be objectionable. Specifically, where displays of super strength from currently separated factions within SHIELD or the Avengers Initiative couldn’t reasonably be objected to. By anybody.

Tony finally orchestrated 20 minutes alone, claiming he had “diarrhea so bad a PA had to go to Duane Reade to buy a three-pack of Tucks pre-moistened towelettes.” Again, ending conversations is never as difficult as polite people make it. He ducked into the closet and quickly slipped in behind the—huh. He forgot he owned those. He set the shoes on the floor to remind him to wear them tomorrow, he liked the way the heel made him stand back but look taller.

Finally. In the bomb shelter. Where Pepper wasn’t following him, Happy wasn’t texting him, and Natasha wasn’t saying what she hadn’t been saying all along.

Natasha had used every combination of words possible for “Bring Steve home and tell him we were wrong” without ever saying “Steve.” Or “home.” She frequently used “wrong.”

He didn’t buy it because they weren’t wrong, goddammit. _He wasn’t wrong_. The others hadn’t known how powerful weapons can make you a worse person without even trying. See what Howard had done, running amok? The truth of it was, all of them benefitted from Howard Stark in one way or another, without paying the ungodly high price of being the man’s son. Hadn’t they seen that? What inheriting a weapons business did to Tony?

It all descended from Howard Stark. Howard, Peggy, Mr. Jarvis, the SSR. He suddenly ached with envy for bonds forged decades before his birth. A time when building weapons was for the greater good. There had been one morality, one enemy, everybody felt good fighting the just fight. The kind of endeavor that bonded Steve to Peggy then, in turn, Howard to Steve. What if, what if…what if he had been the technical genius of the Second World War? Drinking with the Commandos, flying Steve into enemy territory, flirting shamelessly with Peg as he and Bucky griped about being invisible since the miracle of Dr. Erskine’s serum.

What if he had never felt he had to buy friends?

“JARVIS, music list “Required Listening,” please. The one I made for—the one I created 2011.” Eric Clapton came on singing about Layla hard and fast and with a good riff. None of the Unplugged shit he did later.

“J, any unresolved business in known charitable works?”

“Yes, sir. The middle management had to become creative regarding the distribution of money to cover the renovations to the VA facility we discussed last month.”

“On screen. Show me where and why.” It was pretty obvious. During the installation of the new computers some staff didn’t know how to work them but couldn’t get back their old ones again. That was because the Monday following the beautiful makeover the staff had let the vets use baseball bats to beat the hideously old tech to oblivion. They LOVED it. Tony kept the file of news coverage in a folder he could view any time, labelled _unplanned distribution of unusable components_.

“So, J, I see the invoice for a call for tech support, then someone asked why they had new machines, and when they traced it back it was caught, am I right? I know I’m not wrong. There is no wrong here, we’re all out of wrong today. They realized that asshat Stern would never fight for VA money.”

JARVIS made a noise that was the AI’s equivalent to a sniff of approval. That had originated with the actual Mr. Jarvis whom frequently made that tiny huff when demanding Tony do his homework. Tony would produce a completed, flawless assignment he’d already done in five minutes and was therefore free to play. It was mild annoyance masking considerable pride. Tony would give up everything from the closet he was hiding in to hear it from the real Mr. Jarvis one last time.

“That’s fine,” Tony said as he flicked through the charitable reports from last month. “JARVIS, get our accountants to make it appear the money was funneled from a surplus budget in a PAC supporting Stern. He’ll never tell anybody he can’t keep track of his own donations. He’ll publicly take credit, then we’ll let his opponent in the next primary snoop just enough to question which PAC or lobbyist did this. He’ll still look bad and we can get a competent person in the Senate which will make a nice change. Anything else?”

“Not from known charity. There is a delicate situation I wanted to address, sir, but perhaps we should save that for last. The only other item of business is the dining room supplement you sent. Here are a sample of online comments in the last three weeks aggregated from public web communications.”

Images from Instagram, Twitter and the Washington Post filled the screen. Tony glanced through them as the music behind him switched to U2’s song “One.”

_“Been to visit mom, so glad to see fresh fruit and veggies out for snacks anything the residents would like, plus they got soft serve now! Mom loves to make a cone for herself and watch TV.”_

_“Cupcakes for Goodness Sake! The new baking courses for elderly residents are a great idea—they bake them then also send some to a homeless shelter. I call that a win-win!”_

_“Dad doesn’t like mushroom soup so I gladly took it off his hands, could have been at a restaurant so yummers”_

_“Food for Mood: Meet the senior citizen facility in DC winning over hearts and stomachs”_

_“I come in from w. va. & used to bring stuff she could have in her room. Now she’s the one inviting ME 2 take home snacks!!_

He liked to imagine Aunt Peg up there with St. Peter, using an angel’s voice for whipping the cooks and staff into a shipshape crew. “Start doing your best to make more out of less, get creative, use spices, for God’s sake!” Aunt Peg carried on no matter what, that was her English side. She studied like a Greek philosopher, swore like an American Marine, drank like a Russian politician and ate like a French gourmand. Dammit, there would never be another Aunt Peggy. They just don’t come around often enough to meet two like her in a man’s life. “Thanks JARV. Good timing, needed that. Anything else before the big whatever?”

“No, sir, that’s it for this month. Now on to the more delicate matter. You know that last month we sent funds to help out the baby of an SI staffer, the Ortega family?”

“Oh, shit. Tell me she’s okay.”

“Absolutely sir, from what I can gather she should be running around like other children and will not remember this time in her life.” Tony leaned back on the couch in relief. He couldn’t handle it today. He couldn’t handle anything today. “However sir, a new opportunity arose. In the children’s ward they have a girl, age nine, who completed her form for the Make a Wish foundation.”

Tony groaned. “J, I can’t handle it. Please just tell me. She wants to meet Iron Man? I can do that. Rhodey is out, Widow? Tell me.”

JARVIS gave the playlist a second to adjust to begin playing the Beatles “Yesterday.” “Sir, she requested to meet Captain Rogers. The foundation tried to explain he’s in another country helping those people but the situation truly seems to be an all-or-nothing proposition, sir. I have brought this to your attention to see if there is a way we--”

OKAY. It was all okay. It was, nothing. Nothing could hurt him. He didn’t think there was anything left to hurt. He opened a blank email screen. “JARVIS, please dictate this to King T’Challa and copy Steve on it. Let them know about the situation, and suggest that they set up a time for a Skype. Tell them I fully expect them to use an encryption code generated for one-time use and the electronic copies, timelines, or other traces will self-destruct upon the completion of the call. And, uh, give them my personal word this is not an attempt to trace Steve’s exact location. I mean, we assume it’s the palace, but just throw that in, with, uh, with, with my statement I won’t listen at all. This is private and not for my ears. I’m only setting it up because I have access Make a Wish doesn’t. Got that?

“Naturally. That concludes our business, sir.”

Tony couldn’t shut off the light fast enough. He practically ran back to his lab and vowed to stay until he had done something at least an order of magnitude more impressive than designing the Iron Man suit in a desert cave under threat of death from terrorists.

********

He knew he shouldn’t. It was bad news.

He wasn’t going to.

It was, harder? Was it making his life harder? Was it sad, or weird, or, an obsession?

No. He grabbed his Starkpad and programmed it for the alarm. It wasn’t making his life harder, it was making the next month easier. Four whole weeks until the next third Tuesday.

He went back to welding.

********

The alarm went off sometime Sunday evening. He knew he had been brought food, but it didn’t have taste or texture. He slept wherever he dropped. It didn’t matter.

At 9:15 the algorithm he designed pinged. The increased traffic to the Pediatric Oncology floor of…would he do it? Too late. He knew what he needed. This was for him, not anybody else. He walked to the elevator.

On the 32nd floor Tony got out. He used his security override for the door to the largest living space on the floor. There were a few guest suites he knew, or he thought he had known, that would be used regularly. If he couldn’t persuade Sam to stay on, he figured at least he should have his own room so he could be comfortable when he came to visit Steve and all of the other friends he had in the Tower.

There was another guest suite following the beautifully rounded corners of his specially designed housing units. It flowed, felt easy, blended. It was decorated in white with subtle accents of cream and ecru. An interior designer consulted with a counselor to strike the balance between “cozy” and “non-stimulating.” It had an extra-firm bed, a large therapeutic bath designed to relax all the way up to the neck. Or, as Tony had thought of it, to the shoulders. The cabinets were padded to not make noise. Every door triple locked to increase feelings of safety from the outside world. Special cameras showed every possible access to the 32nd floor so surveillance could be accomplished by the resident if desired. It could be soundproofed. It had a button for a 24/7 nurse on call.

It was a suite for a recently returned veteran with deep mental and physical challenges to face. Who had been sleeping on floors, had panic attacks, and often required silence to regroup and stabilize.

Tony was sure it had never been used.

Tony angled away and walked in the other door. Many of the super soldiers’ things were locked into storage in a utility room on this floor. He only had a few minutes left until the call would start. Tony went to the back bedroom. There was still time. He didn’t have to do this. He could walk away. He asked himself to walk through what positive thing this could possibly accomplish. That didn’t matter. He knew what he was going to do.

Fully clothed, he laid on top of the bed. He had thought it through already. Steve always favored sleeping on his right arm, facing the center. On the quinjet he tucked right arm in, left arm out to touch Bucky if possible. Tony laid his head on his left arm and looked at the center of the bed. The empty space where Steve must have faced over a thousand times.

What Tony couldn’t understand is that his feelings weren’t, hadn’t been, sexual, per se. He realized that both of them fit somewhere in the middle of a bisexual identity yet that wasn’t the point. It truly wasn’t. It was immaterial that Steve was handsome and strong. Tony had had sex with lots of other people, and, thanks to the miracle that had been Pepper, he understood making love and what that meant. He didn’t picture Steve pulling him in this bed and kissing him, he pictured…the Skype came up. From Tony’s view the patient was in the smaller view finder.

Tony was, in fact if not in spirit, obeying the letter of the law he proposed. He said he wouldn’t trace the call, and he didn’t. He didn’t record it. He had the sound muted and, a man of his word, he didn’t listen to a single moment .

Steve was in Cap’s suit but no mask. Steve was with him in the bed Tony had bought for him. He was facing Tony, the same brilliant blue eyes widening in surprise, squinting at bad news, open and trustworthy as he leaned forward and stared into the camera. The girl was showing drawings she had made, a sticker collection, some wigs and hats she wore, a get well card. Tony watched Captain America do what he was best at; protecting people by making them feel he was there _just_ for them. Tony had never needed sex from Steve. He had needed _this_. Undivided attention, being let in. Seeing something in his eyes that nobody else got to see. Having pieces of themselves to give away. What he pictured wasn’t a kiss. It was a hug. Being held. One moment where he felt small, and protected by a gentle giant that understood Iron Man wanted to be protected sometimes. Iron Man wanted that from the man who abandoned this room without a backwards glance to stay with the man who had his undivided attention, the man Steve begged to let him in. Bucky would always be the person laying on this side of the bed and looking at the face Tony was touching on his screen.

He wasn’t wrong about being busy and he wasn’t wrong about the weapons and he wasn’t wrong about the Accords and he wasn’t wrong about the Senator and he wasn’t wrong, he **wasn’t** wrong about this Tower and he was **NOT WRONG** about making them family. About giving them everything he could.

But on the third Tuesday of this month he was in another man’s bed, heartbroken.

He thought Steve was his friend.

He was wrong.

 

 


End file.
